


3am Break-Ins

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Other, Stag Night, Wedding, no godforsaken angst not in my house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 14:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11991879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: 3am: Greg gets a call about a break in at Roland Kerr Further Education College and hosts an impromptu stag night. By 8am the following day, he's best man at a wedding.





	3am Break-Ins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/gifts).



> Dear friends, 
> 
> It's been years since I've written a fanfic and I've been in the Sherlock fandom since 2013. I've been lurking and reading fanfics all this time. It's time for me to contribute. 
> 
> I dedicate this to @lockedinjohnlock as I am grateful for their podficc-ed works. Check their work out!
> 
> This is not beta-ed or brit-picked. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> RH

Greg shook his head after receiving a call from one of the officers in vice. A break in at Roland Kerr Further Education College over half an hour ago. The two suspects: both male and middle, aged, one tall and cladded in a dark grey coat (“and finely a tailored suit.” the officer who found them and was successfully escaped by the two men said), and the other, average height with a blonde-brown-grey hair. 

Many men in London fit the description the (new, unseasoned) officer relayed to Greg. However, he knows only two men fitting with the aforementioned description who would definitely break-in Roland Kerr Further Education College at 3 in the morning.

The call wouldn’t be directed to him (of all people in Scotland’s Yard) if his colleagues believed the two late night marauders to be two bastards as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

Greg supposed he’d have a word with Sherlock and John in the morning. The energy he’d need to invest talking to one of them, even it was the more reasonable John Watson, was energy he didn’t feel like investing tonight. Greg dropped his phone, tossed and turned on his bed, cursed his two friends for interrupting his well-deserved (really, much needed) sleep. 

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, his two friends. When he first started in the Met, he witnessed his colleagues shake their heads and belittle Sherlock. Though, Greg couldn’t reprimand his company for their judgements, Sherlock was trouble: a reckless young adult, showing up to crime scenes with rugged hair, a pasty face, and red rimmed eyes. His physical appearance and his drug use tainted his credibility, though not his intelligence. All the blokes and birds in the vicinity was in awe at the presence of Sherlock Holmes. However, Greg can’t guarantee the look of awe to be aimed towards Sherlock in admiration. In fact, most times, it was quite the opposite: Sherlock received venomous threats, a stomp on the foot, or spit in his coffee (at various times, on his face). 

Through promotions, which Greg (secretly) attributed to his working relationship with Sherlock, he was able to provide the then aspiring – consulting detective with further access to crime scenes. Greg figured that crime scenes were an alternative to getting high, and then later, boredom. It was a surprise, when Greg arrived to 221B with Sherlock’s masked enthusiasm at the news of (another!) serial suicide and another man’s kind, questioning smile. 

Sherlock Holmes did not have guests, and at this point, circa A Study in Pink, (according to John’s blog), Holmes proclaimed himself as a “sociopath” without friends. Greg called bullshit to Sherlock’s flawed mask – he may not be a genius like consulting detective, but Greg knows bullshit when he sees it (his wife fooled him for years, and he knew about the long affair despite Sherlock’s assumption that Greg was a blind idiot). 

It’s elementary, really. Greg would argue to Sally and all the folks in Scotland’s Yard that Sherlock cultivates an aloof, detached persona and masquerades as a sociopath for the sake of brevity and ease. To present himself as an unamicable, hateful man would rid him (save him) of feeling too much. 

Greg’s been on the other side of questioning rooms. He’s seen Sherlock deduce breast cancer survivors and abused children struggling with addiction, masking sympathy and empathy with rationale. Sherlock’s decision to override his emotions with logic and observable evidence, Greg thought, should not discount his empathy and heart. He recalls the venom Sally and other higher-ups spit before the Fall. Specifically, Greg recalls the kidnappings and bombings over a decade ago: it seemed that Sherlock didn’t care and that all that mattered was the Work, the Chase, and Solving the crime. However, Greg knew better, to save a life, Sherlock believed that he needed to transform his brain and body (“It’s just transport, Graham.”) into a machine. 

Or so he thought… 

Then again, the Great Detective him attributes as the one “to solve a murder” while John Watson “saves the life.” Idiot, he’s solved murders and saved lives. Sherlock’s an enigma: two overcome with two competing forces, the heart and the mind. But with John, Sherlock is able to solve cases with the two. 

But as the universe would have it, before Greg is able to ring Sherlock (though he should probably call John because Holmes “prefers to text” and refuses to pick up his damn phone), there’s three unyielding knocks on the door followed my giggling and shushed tones, as if the people behind the door are scolding each other.

He questioned which damn bastard would want anything from him before dawn. He’s cladded in a ratty shirt, one from his uni days. His ex-wife begged him to throw it out, but he couldn’t part with the memories of late nights spent in the campus library and cheap beer in boisterous bars. It’s not that he hasn’t grown out of those habits – far from it actually. The shirt now serves as a memorabilia of easier times – nights spent when he didn’t have to stay in the Met to go over case files of dead women in pink suits, bad cabbies, or consulting criminals. 

Greg, at this point, old uni shirt (it’s gotten quite smaller these last few years, while his waist has been growing incrementally) and pants, refuses to get a robe. Screw decency – it was well past 3am. 

Another 3 taps at the door. Back to back followed by an annoyed huff and a snicker. 

“And just want the hell are you two doing here?” exasperated, Greg shook his head as he opened his door wider to let Sherlock and John in… No, that’s not right. He let in a drunk John and Sherlock into his home. The detective swung a bottle of whiskey (not overtly expensive, but will get them hammered nonetheless) towards Greg.

“Graham, you’re our friend, according to John. So what kind of stag night is this?” 

Greg rolled his eyes, briefly recalling that he wasn’t invited to John’s stag night. What did Sherlock just say? “Who’s getting married?” 

Greg turned, and eyes trailing where John’s other arm was – must be occupying the space behind Sherlock’ back. He caught John’s eyes and there it was, just as it was in the first crime scene A Study in Pink: John continues to wear the look of amazement, just as he did that very night when he wore a ridiculous blue safety suit as part of protocol, while he watched Sherlock list out deductions about the dead woman in the room. It never quite faded. Greg and Molly, along with Mrs. Hudson and the rest of Scotland Yard, discussed the possibility of the romantic relationship the time before the Fall. 

After the Fall, it seemed like they were two parallel lines, a relationship never met to connect; just two people, two lines standing side by side but never touching. Greg, along with the rest of the entourage that attended John’s godforsaken wedding with that Mary woman, listened intently as Sherlock confessed his deepest and most honest feelings regarding his friendship with John to a room full of people. 

A whole fuckton of things got in the way. But here they are, and now, Sherlock is waving his hand and reaching for John’s. 

“You two?” Greg blanched. 

“Obviously. You see the rings, dontcha Detective?” Sherlock slurred and proceeded to drag John to the lumpy brown sofa. He sat with a sigh and twisted the bottle of whisky open, taking a swing before passing it to John.

“Don’t get too hammered. We’re waking up early, remember?” John set the bottle down the table, not paying attention to the homeowner at all. 

Perhaps because he may not be acknowledged, Greg sat on the lazy boy across the couch and took the bottle for himself. “Fucking hell. You bastards are getting married!” With that statement and the rush of excitement he felt for his two friends, Greg took another gulp of whiskey, not bothering with niceties like offering them a glasses or water. “About time.” 

“Who will you be splitting the pool with at Scotland Yard?” Sherlock drawled while John laughed. 

“Dimmock.” Greg grinned, he’s getting a laugh and a heavy pocket once the Met learns about tonight’s ventures. “And Sally. She’s always believed you two idiots would find your way.” 

Sherlock hummed. “We did, eventually. Obviously.” 

“Thought I’d be more.” John pondered, sitting close to Sherlock, his arms on stretching just over the back of the sofa, a border between Sherlock and the wall. 

“All of Scotland Yard thought you both were shagging since the first few cases. It fluctuated, until the eventual decline though.” Greg doesn’t explain the reason for the fluctuation as an outcome of the Fall at Bart’s and Sherlock’s return, or John’s wedding. Doesn’t matter, not anymore. 

After the quiet reflection, no doubt, all of their minds taking them to the past, Sherlock asked, “What are you doing later today, around 8am?”

“Sleeping with or without a hangover.” He takes another gulp of the whiskey. They’re half way done with the bottle. 

“Meet us at City Hall.” 

Greg raises his eyebrows, “A case?” He doesn’t recall giving Sherlock a case recently. Of course, they have their private investigations, but lately the two have been cutting their caseload and focusing on the little one (growing one, really) in 221B. 

Sherlock shook his head, “A wedding.”

“For a case?” Greg tried to clarify.

John shook his head, “For us. Me and this madman.” He smiled and reached for Sherlock’s hand. 

Greg wasn’t sure how long he sat gripping the whiskey bottle. The news of their engagement meant him getting hammered with john and Sherlock tonight, but a wedding tomorrow? He needs another bottle.

“Rosie is with Molly, so they’ll both meet us there. We’ll pick up Mrs. Hudson on our way to the City Hall.”

“Wow.” Greg had nothing clever to say. He was flabbergasted. 

Sherlock barked a laugh. He was amused. “Really, Detective? Very eloquent.”

“It’s in a few hours.” Greg replied. That comment was more for him to process the fact that these two blokes, he’s known for over a decade are finally getting their shit together. “You want me up and functioning by then?”

“We’ve missed too much.” John looks at Sherlock longingly. Perhaps, he’s reminded of the time he spent alone after the Fall. Greg tried to pry him out of his new practice and apartment, but to no avail those first few months Sherlock “passed.” 

“Never took you for the ritualistic type, Sherlock.” Greg said.

John rolled his eyes. “You should see his morning routine when he’s not sulking in the sofa in his pajamas and getting Rosie to do the same.” 

“I believe you.” Greg empathizes. He has a daughter afterall. 

“You’re correct, Lestrade. Typically, I do not engage in these practices, especially when it requires acknowledged by the government for ‘legality.’ However, I deduced this last week that John was planning to propose. Rosie helped pick the ring and dropped hints unknowingly about a surprise in the coming future and being a ‘real’ family. By ‘real’ I presume, she means in the legal sense, despite that she’s called me Papa for the past two years now. Unknowing to both Watsons, however, I already bought a ring last month.”

“That’s Watson-Holmes to you, tomorrow.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand with a crooked grin, his excitement bleeding onto Lestrade himself. 

Sherlock smiled back and elaborated, “So, after our case, I hailed a cabbie and took John Roland Kerr –“

Greg sighed, he ought to scold them. “I received a call about that. Woke me up, you know.” 

Sherlock beamed, “We knew you’d deal with it. Now, let me continue,” Sherlock was drunk but he functioned well enough to look annoyed at being interrupted mid-speech. “I recited our A Study in Pink Case, and my awe at him meeting me after the crime scene.” Greg noticed Sherlock and John shared a quick look.

“You were in shock.”

“Yes, I was.” Sherlock added. “After retelling the events of our first case together, John pulled me for a kiss, then reached for inside his coat pocket. I pulled away and reached for my own box. We both laughed.”

Greg eyed Sherlock suspiciously. “I received a call from an officer regarding noise and indecency in Roland Kerr. He said, by the time he reached the place he only caught sight of two figures running out.”

“At least, we left and didn’t continue shagging.” Sherlock retorted as if he spared the officer the trouble.

“Bloody hell. By indecent, I thought, you were snogging.”

“You thought wrong detective. Now pass the alcohol and order some chips or Chinese. What kind of stag night would our best man be hosting without food?” 

With a grin plastered on his face, Greg stood up, tapped Sherlock and John on the back, and fetched his phone. Maybe he can get a trainee to deliver the food from a 24hour take-away. 

*  


Hours later, just a little after 8am, Greg removed his sunglasses, revealing his bloodshot eyes and sipped on his coffee (two shots of espresso and three sugars, he needed it). He kissed Molly and Mrs. Hudson on the cheek before he held Rosie in his arms. Less than an hour later, he’s signing the ceremonial certificate that bares him as witness for the non-secular wedding of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and Dr. John Watson, and posing for a picture in front of City Hall at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence.

Just as John offered a place for brunch, Greg received a call from the Met. He turned to leave, but thought better of it, “If you’ve got time before the honeymoon, there’s a double homicide at King’s Cross.”

“Oh, boys! Just married and already running off to a case?” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed before offering her arms for Rosie.

“There’s not a better way to celebrate.” John sighed, then, a moment later, blushed after Sherlock mischievously raised an eyebrow.

With a wave to Molly, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson, the just-married couple and their best man hailed a taxi.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your feedback, please consider commenting with your thoughts.
> 
> Now, time for fic recs!!! 
> 
> This fic destroyed me and captures the general melacholia of life: getting old, being alone, finding love (again). You must read this and show Blueink3 some love: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11656116/chapters/26225499
> 
> Emmagrant01's newest Johnlock fic is set in the Midwest. Hockey, Unilock. What more could you want? Check it out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10056071


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